Five O'Clock in the Morning
by furby23
Summary: it's five o'clock in the morning / conversation got boring / you said you were going to bed soon / so I snuck off to your bedroom / and I though I'd just wait there / until I heard you come up the stairs / and I pretended that I was sleeping / and I was hoping you would creep in / with me (Who'd Have Known, by Lily Allen)


"Perhaps we could go for a walk tomorrow," Christine suggested.

"Yes, perhaps so," Erik agreed absentmindedly.

She twisted her handkerchief between her hands nervously as she watched him jot down notes in a rather large notebook. He had been working on some sort of project ever since they had finished dinner. It was late, now - quite late, in fact. But she had been at the opera house all day, and she had missed him while she was gone. She was thankful that he never seemed to mind her company even while he was working.

"We could walk along the Seine," she suggested.

"Hmm."

She yawned, trying to stifle it with both hands, but Erik glanced over anyway.

"You should go to bed, Christine," he said. "It's much too late to be up."

"It's not that late," she protested.

She was tired, but she had been growing increasingly used to such odd hours, even taking little naps at the opera house when she had the chance to make up for the lack of sleep.

"It's nearly five in the morning, dear," he said gently. "You're lucky you don't have to work tomorrow."

She frowned, fidgeting under his gaze, but she knew her husband was right. Her husband - they had been married for two months now. The mask that covered nearly his entire face left much of his emotion and expression a mystery, but she was learning to decipher his mood from his amber eyes alone, and right now he was concerned for her.

"Christine does not need to stay awake just because Erik is awake, it is quite alright," he went on.

"But I like spending time with you," she said in a small voice.

"And Erik likes spending time with Christine," she could see the love there in his eyes. "But not at the expense of her health!"

"What about your health, though? You should go to bed soon, too."

He glanced down at his notebook.

"Ah, hmm. Yes, soon."

"Promise?"

"I promise," he hesitated. "But not just yet. A little longer, and I will be finished."

She nodded and stood up. She was more tired than she preferred to admit.

She watched him as he jotted something down, and she slowly approached him before placing a hand on his shoulder and giving it a little squeeze. He looked up, surprised, and placed his hand over hers, brushing his fingers across her own.

"Goodnight, Erik."

"Goodnight, my love."

She turned and walked to her bedroom, frowning a little.

Two months of marriage, and yet their union had never been consummated. A few weeks before the wedding he had bought a little flat for them to live in, and she had moved in right away. After their wedding, he had moved in too. She could still clearly remember their first evening in the flat together - finally alone, having just hours ago sworn to spend the rest of lives together. He had put his hands on her shoulders and drew her in close, pressing a kiss to her forehead before whispering declarations of his undying love for her. He had then sent her to her room, where she had waited for over an hour before she realized he had, in fact, retired to his own room and had no intentions of taking his husbandly right.

She had thought, perhaps, that he was merely allowing her to adjust to the idea (even though she had been fully prepared), and that perhaps he would come to her the next evening. But night after night he never did, and she eventually stopped waiting up for him, instead simply going to sleep after she had prepared for bed. She didn't know how to bring it up to him, how to ask him about it. Did he never intend to take anything any further? Was she lacking, somehow?

He still looked at her, sometimes, like she might run away at any given moment. Was he afraid of frightening her? She wasn't frightened. She wanted a real marriage, with everything a real marriage entailed. Didn't he? He did love her, after all. He told her so often enough, he proved it through his actions. But still their kisses were only little more than chaste, and though he would touch or hug her on occasion, he was always quite careful when he did so. Was he changing his mind? Was he trying to give her the opportunity to change hers? But she had already made her mind up.

She changed into her nightclothes and tried to blink away the sting in her eyes. It made her feel as though there was something wrong with her, like she was being scorned. If she just knew his reasoning, she felt it would be easier to bear. But there had been no explanation, and the more time that went by, the harder she found it to bring up to him. She should have just marched up to his bedroom door on their wedding night and demanded to know his full intentions - surely it was not a crime for a wife to want to feel that her husband desired her.

She stood at the side of her bed, staring at it, her arms wrapped around herself. She couldn't stand going on like this. If she could just understand it - if they could just talk about it. She would understand if he was uncomfortable with the idea (his life had not been very normal - perhaps he was not comfortable with the idea of touching), or if he was unable for whatever reason, or even if he was just not interested in such things - she would not judge him for that! But this terrible not knowing if it was somehow her fault - that was what she could not stand. Had he only wanted her as a muse for inspiration? Did he not love her in that way? A single tear rolled down her cheek. Was she inadequate in some form?

She feared their marriage was crumbling apart before it had even gotten started.

She turned from her bed and padded down the hall. His bedroom door was still open. She went into his room, but found he wasn't there. She bit her lip, and on a whim she pulled back the covers on his bed and crawled under them. She sent up a silent prayer of gratitude that he had agreed to give up that terrible coffin and had bought an actual bed (it had only taken a few tears and a trembling lip on her part, and he had relented quickly).

She very nearly rethought her course of action, but then she heard him coming down the hallway. There was no way she could leave now without him seeing her. She closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep.

He walked from the doorway straight into his bathroom, where he kept his nightclothes. He didn't even look at the bed - why would he? There was never anything (anyone) there.

She felt silly as she lay there. What was her plan? She was hoping he would let her stay, at least. She certainly wasn't expecting him to _do_ anything (it was terribly late), although she was not opposed to the idea should it come up. But just - she just wanted him to hold her. Was that so wrong? For a wife to want her husband to hold her? He hadn't held her at all, yet. Two long months of yearning, too embarrassed to ask. She felt awfully silly - it really was a silly plan. Perhaps that was why he didn't think of her in that way, perhaps he thought her too immature and unsophisticated (she was a grown woman, but he was a genius, so she was certain that she quite often seemed silly and childlike to him).

He finished changing and came into his bedroom again, nearly silent footfalls stopping abruptly as he noticed her there.

Her heart was pounding in her chest and she forced herself to breathe evenly.

He slowly approached the bed.

"Oh, Christine," he breathed. "Christine."

She felt the blanket being pulled back and the mattress dip as he leaned a knee into it. A chilled hand reached out and touched her arm. He shook her a little, wanting to see if she was still awake.

"You're in the wrong bed, my dear," amusement colored his voice. "Did you get lost on the way to your room?"

She turned her face towards the mattress, suddenly afraid that he was going to try to wake her and send her back to her own bed. She choked back a sob that she felt rising in her throat, and managed to keep from making a noise. Her heart would surely break irreparably if he sent her back. What had she been thinking, climbing into his bed like this?

The dip evened out as he pulled back, and she could hear him pace the room a little. Finally he stopped and simply stared at her. He didn't know why she was there - he was quite baffled by it. She was a smart girl, she knew where her own room was. No, she hadn't made a mistake. She had, apparently, _chosen_ to sleep in his bed.

He watched as her back gently rose and fell with each breath, stared at her little hand placed atop the pillow near her face, at the pile of curly blonde hair resting on the dark sheets. He sighed. He was tired. Too tired to worry about it anymore, too tired to try to sleep on the couch instead.

She held her breath as she felt the bed dip once more.

"My poor, sweet angel," he crooned softly as he lay down next to her.

He tugged the blankets over them both, and brushed her hair away from her face before leaning down to kiss her cheek and neck.

"How can such a good, pure being stand to have one like Erik touch her?" he murmured, presuming her to be asleep. "He does not deserve such a blessing, surely."

She felt her breath stutter. This whole time she had been feeling there was something wrong with her - had he been feeling the same way about himself? Had really been refraining from touching her because he thought himself unworthy?

He ran his hand down her arm again and then carefully wrapped his arm around her, pulling her back flush to his chest.

She felt like she could cry again, only this time from joy.

"Does Erik's little wife know how much he loves her?" his thumb mindlessly stroked the fabric of her nightdress on her waist. "More than the stars in the sky or all the music in all the opera houses of the entire world."

He buried his face in her soft hair, inhaling deeply. He was terribly glad she was asleep, he would feel quite embarrassed otherwise. He still felt so flustered around her, so shy. He loved her so very much, and she loved him too, but he could never figure out why. It made no sense to him, but she did, just like how finding her in his bed made no sense, but she was there all the same.

She smiled to herself as a tear or two leaked from her closed eyes. Her heart was so full of love for the man next to her that she felt it might burst. They would be okay. Everything was going to be okay. There was nothing wrong with either of them, other than that they were both too caught up in their own minds. They would talk about it tomorrow - she finally felt the last of her shyness melt away. They would talk, and as they talked, they would understand - they would each understand other and it would be okay. Marriages thrived with understanding, did they not?

"We'll go for a walk tomorrow afternoon," he said softly to no one in particular. "A lovely walk by the Seine, just Christine and Erik. It will be perfect, a perfect walk, a perfect day. And how could it not?"

He nuzzled against her sleepily, pulling her a little closer.

"After all," his voice was falling to a whisper as he drifted off to sleep with her in his arms. "No one has ever had such a perfect wife as Christine."


End file.
